Through Thick and Thin
by Loves-To-Write-Ready-To-Listen
Summary: From Roger and Mark's first meeting, right up until that fateful Christmas Eve of 1989. See the trials and times of a long friendship. PRE-rent, just my take on the way the two best friends, met and stayed together through thick and thin.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay, so this is my first multi-chapter Rent story. It is pre-rent, from Mark and Roger's first meeting and will probably run right up into the beginning of the musical/movie. It may take me a long time to update. Also, I'm only planning one or two chapters for each year of high school. ****I don't own Rent, Mark, or Roger. Feed back is loved. NO SLASH. Just Mark/Roger friendship.**

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**_Through Thick and Thin_**

**Chapter One**

I was nervous and late as I rushed towards my homeroom, or what I hoped was my homeroom on the first day off class. Right, left, left, straight, room 242, I check my timetable just to make sure. Perfect. I check again. I wonder about knocking but there are already kids in the room, so I just go, find a seat in the back corner, and plunk myself down. Push my glasses up my nose, and observe.

Our teacher isn't here yet, my first day of high school, and already I see how unruly normal teenagers are. I, of course, am not a normal teenager. I'm not a normal boy. Not normal at all. I'd rather sit and watch, then join in, I'm never upset when someone doesn't pick me, I'd rather read a book, or take pictures then play baseball or play fight with friends. Not that I have any friends. Normal people have friends. Now, I see the normal people.

Some girls sitting in a circle near the teacher's desk, smiling and giggling and showing each other the colors of their nails. Why would you want to color your nails anyway? I never understood that. Anyway, as I watch, I wonder if the red head knows that the dark-skinned girl playing with friend's hair is cutting herself.

I turn and see two boys arguing, loudly, over something I don't quite understand. That doesn't matter, all I know is that these two aren't really fighting, they're teasing each other, I suppose. The taller one punches the curly haired one on the shoulder, and when the curly haired guy flinches, the tall one just laughs.

The room is in a state of chaos. No one is sitting still; the room is already a mess. Airplanes of paper zoom above my head, and not one person seems to give a damn that our teacher is nearly ten minutes late. I wonder if they'll all leave eventually or if the teacher will show up and start the class. I sigh and glance around the room one more time; to make sure I took in everything. I hadn't. I had missed one person.

He was sitting in the back, on the left, while I was on the right, he had spiky bleached blonde hair, and he was hunched over something, I moved slightly to get a better look. It was a notebook, he was writing in, while muttering under his breath, then crossing out the word he had just written to start again. From this end of the classroom, I couldn't here what he was saying, but I bet he was frustrated. With each scribble of a word, he began getting a little more violent. I was intrigued, curious; I wanted to know what was in the notebook. Roger crossed out another few words, and just as our teacher walked in and the classroom quieted down, he said a word loudly enough for all of us to hear. "FUCK!"

I pressed my hand to my mouth to keep from laughing, it was amazing. The teacher looked at him, she was young and nervous looking. Her blonder hair curled around her shoulders and she smiled at him. "Now…I don't tolerate that kind of language in my class Mister…"

"Roger."

"Mister Rogers."

"No. Not Mr. Rogers. Roger. Roger Davis, Roger."

"Right, Mr. Davis, I do not tolerate that kind of language, and if it happens again, you will have a detention."

"Do you think I care? And I told you. It's Roger." He spelt out his name slowly, "R-O-G-E-R, five letters, and two syllables, not hard to say. Use it. I'm not a mister."

Now I was laughing. Carefully hidden in the shadows, but other kids were staring at Roger in awe. The teacher tried again, "Roger, one more comment and you will be suspended."

Roger said nothing more, and the teacher introduced herself, "Hello, I am Miss Katie Hudson." She pushed a strand of hair back and smoothed her denim skirt. "I will be teaching you ninth grade English, this is my first day here, I used to teach grade three, so I'm just as nervous as you all are." She giggled. "So, first things, I think we're gonna get to know each other, right, so, everyone pick a partner, and write down three new things about your classmate, at the end of the period we'll share them." She turned around to write her name and the instructions on the board, as soon as her back was facing him, Roger flipped her off, and mouthed something that look like "Fuck you bitch." And "We are not babies."

Miss Katie Hudson spun back around, wiped chalk on her black t-shirt, and clapped her hands. "Now, everyone find partners! Chop chop!"

There was much grumbling and eye-rolling, as people reached out or went to sit near their friends. I had been home schooled until this time, was left alone, I was friendless. I sighed, and ran a hair through my short blonde hair this was what I had been afraid of. Then I noticed I wasn't the only person who was alone, Roger had not looked up from his notebook, since he gave Miss Hudson the finger.

Unfortunately, Miss Hudson noticed too, and her blue eyes sparkled behind silver framed lenses, and she let out the biggest smiled I had ever seen. "Roger, why don't you go over and sit with Mr."

"Mark. Mark Cohen, I'm Mark." I told her, I knew what Roger meant about last names, I was too young to be a mister, and Mr. Cohen was my father, I never wanted to be my father.

"Roger, why don't you go over and sit with Mr. Cohen."

I cringed at the surname and was surprised when Roger actually got up, grabbing his notebook, and dragged his chair over to where I was. "So, Mark. Give me three things I know about you so I don't fail this class. They don't have to be good; I only need a 50."

I thought for a moment, and then said, "I've been home schooled until now, I'm horrible at making friends, and I've lived in Scarsdale all my life."

"Okay." Roger said, and went back to writing and crossing out words.

"Hey! I need three things too." I protested.

"I'll give you two." Roger replied. "You'll have to guess the last one, or make it up, I don't really care."

"Okay." I said.

"I just moved here, and I don't give a crap about school." He informed me. Then he returned once again, to his notebook. I leaned back and studied him. Since I was gifted at observing, I figured I could learn one thing about him, without him telling me, easily. I studied his hair first, then I moved down to his face, he had started shaving already, I knew because there was a five o clock shadow, on his cheeks and chin, a shade or two darker than the one on his head. He was obviously taller and stronger than me; he didn't care what he looked liked, wearing a wrinkled t-shirt underneath the leather jacket, and jeans with frayed bottoms and holes in the knees. Roger was humming under his breath, I realized, and as he scratched out whatever he had been writing he said, "Wrong word for that chord." I smiled… he was writing a song. Then, guessing that Roger would not like to have that revealed, I glanced at the hands that were doing all the work on the pages. Roger's left hand was blistered, and when he was not writing with his right hand, he had a pick in the hand. I knew what I would say for his third thing about Roger.

All of a sudden, Miss Hudson clapped her hands together in that rhythmic pattern you here only for the primary grades, everyone ignored her. She cleared her throat, "Alright, time to share with the rest of your classmates what you have learned about your friends. Mr. Cohen, and Roger, you're up first." Clearly, she wasn't going to call me by my first name, Roger had intimidated her, I was intimidated _by_ her.

"C'mon Mark." Roger said, standing up.

"Okay." I said, boy, I was starting to use that word a lot. I followed Roger to the front of the class.

"I'll go first." Roger volunteered, and I shrugged, "Mark, here, well, I learned three things about him. He's lived in Scarsdale all his life. That's one. It's his first day of real school, he's been home schooled until now. Finally, Mark, like me, hates to be called by his surname, and especially, Mr. Cohen. So, Miss H, you can call him Mark, just like you call me Roger."

I glanced at Roger, those were not the three things I had told him, well, two were, but he had totally come up with the last one on his own, and told the teacher off. Roger caught my glance and just made a non-committal shrug of his shoulders. "Alright, well, Roger, here. He is new to Scarsdale." I paused, thinking. "Roger, well, I'm fairly sure; he'll be suspended at least once by the time school is out. Finally, Roger is a musician, a guitarist."

This time, Roger looked at me, shocked. I shrugged again; it was just something I had noticed. I always notice. "That's it." We said together, the grinned at each other. Then walked back, Roger grabbed his chair, and sat in our original spots.

I went back to observing, rather than listening to the rest of the class, while Roger had shut his note book, and was slowly strumming an air guitar. At last, the bell rang, and I hurried out the door, towards my math class, "Yo, kid." I turn to the voice, and realize It Roger.

"Yeah?"

"What's your elective?" he asked.

What a weird question, I wonder why he even asked it, and if I should answer, but I say,"Photography… you?"

"Music." He said, rolling his eyes, "See you around then." And he left me in a state of confusion. I wondered what all that was about. And whether or not it mattered… for now, I decided to ignore it, and concentrate on finding my next class.

* * *

At lunch, I found a table, in the dark back corner, which was not taken by anyone else. I sat down, and plucked out my camera, I had seen a pattern that involved kids running in the aisles, and I didn't want anyone to step on the camera I had saved up for a year for. Kids didn't even care what they trampled over, or if they slipped in some apple juice that looked suspiciously like pee. I pulled out my brown bagged lunch, and opened it staring at the lack of food inside: One small juice box and a peanut butter sandwich. I was used to lunch at home, which was almost like dinner in my house. I wasn't even sure I wanted to eat this. But I shrugged and took a bite anyway. I wasn't all that impressed, but I was hungry. Sullenly, I pulled the crusts off; I still did this even though I was fourteen. It was more of a habit now, then anything.

Imagine my surprise, when Roger sat down across from me, "Hello Mark." He said looking at me like this was a perfectly normal thing to do.

"Why are you sitting here?" I asked.

"The other kids annoy me." He replied.

"I don't annoy you?" I asked, shocked.

"Well…" Roger smirked, "You do… just less then everyone else. You're the only person I've seen here who doesn't care about this damn place, and every little tradition."

"I don't care about this place." I told him and he smiled. "I want to go somewhere big… be famous for something to do with photography… or if I ever get enough for a video camera… I'd like to be a filmmaker… you can't do that in a place like this."

Roger tilted his head and looked at me, "I'm going to be a famous song writer when I'm finished here. That's my Mom's only rule… graduate high school. Then I'm going to go somewhere big. New York City."

"New York City… I'd love to live there; my parents would never allow it though… not until I finish college, at whatever Ivy League school they want me to go to." I shrugged, happy to find someone to talk to.

"I take it your parents do care for the traditions in this city?"

"Yeah, it sucks. I'm supposed to be the picture perfect little Jewish boy, when I am anything but that." I said.

"Y'know what Mark?!" Roger exclaimed, "I think we're gonna be great friends."

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**A/N: Hope you liked it, R&R!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This chapter is short, but it's mostly because it's a fast update. The next chapter will definitely be longer. This chapter is also short because I thought that leaving it off where it ends fits well. Hope you enjoy! And feel free to check out all my stories (written for a vast variety of shows, movies, books, and anime)!**

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**Chapter 2**

"Gah!" I exclaimed, furiously erasing a word. "Roger, help me."

"I'm not qualified to help you in that way Mark." Roger smirked. "I'm not a psychiatrist."

"That's not what I need help with-"

"I think it is." Roger interrupted, laughing.

"Shut up. Help me find a rhyme for flower." I replied. We're sitting in our homeroom English class where we first met, a month ago. This unit is poetry, the first was Shakespeare, and I wonder if you can see how those relate. Anyway, I was fine in the Shakespeare unit we got to act a little, and I'm good at reading and writing scripts so it was easy for me to follow, poetry however, I can't write. And Roger is amazing, he says poems are just songs without music, but I can't write songs, so I don't know how that helps me.

"You're writing a poem about flowers?" Roger asks from his new seat beside mine. "Isn't that a little… gay?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm straight." I tell him, glaring slightly.

"Really?" he asked, "I had you pegged as bi… not that I would've cared, but anyway…"

"Are you gonna help me or not Rog?" I question.

"Sure. Even though your poem will make everyone think you're gay, and flowers are so cliché." He answered.

"Everyone already thinks I'm gay, the poem's not gonna make much of a difference." I told him, "Rhymes?"

"Hmmm… flower rhymes with hour, tower, power, sour…" Roger paused and grinned, "Shower."

"Thanks." I said, and scribbled down the next line of my poem.

"Let me see." Roger demanded, grabbing the paper out of my hand. "Fuck Mark, this is awful." He began to read it aloud, "_Like sunshine opens a flower, day is my finest hour. _That doesn't even make sense, how can day be your finest hour? _Now is my finest hour_ would work better."

I smiled, glad to know Roger was helping me though he insulted me every chance he got. "Sorry, I guess rock stars are just better students then I am." I haven't seen Roger write a single thing down since this unit started a week ago, but he's getting 100 so far. I know because, this is how it works, we have half an hour each period from Monday to Wednesday, and an hour on Thursday to work and a poem. On Friday we present them. Today was Monday, on Friday, I had written a poem about a fire, with help from Roger, and scraped an 80, Roger had gone up completely unprepared, or so I thought. He said an incredible poem, with Miss H giving him a standing ovation and much applause at the end, and 100.

"Not better students," Roger argued, "Just better at writing tuneless songs. What's the point of a tuneless song anyway?"

"So… sing your poem Roger." I suggested. For all the fuss the rock star wannabe made, he never seemed to be able to sing in public, or maybe he just didn't want to.

"This isn't the kind of audience I want." Roger explained, "I need an audience who doesn't give a shit about this place."

"Then how come I haven't heard you play?" I asked, slightly sullenly, Roger had seen some of my photographs. I had never seen him play his guitar, and had only caught him singing once, under his breath. Roger tilted his head slightly.

"You want to hear a song?" Roger asked incredulously.

"Yeah, you've seen my photographs." I explained.

"But you're photos are amazing! My songs are… mediocre." Roger clarified.

"Rog, if your songs are anything like the poem you said on Friday, then you're amazing at what you do." I encouraged him.

"Fine." He stated, "You want to hear me play, you come over today after school, and I'll play for you."

I laughed, "My mother will never let that happen, not without meeting you first. And once she sees you, I'm pretty sure I'll be banned from talking to you ever again."

"Well, I could meet your Mom." Roger said, completely oblivious to anything other then the first sentence.

"Do you even listen to me?" I questioned.

"Sometimes, bits and pieces get through." He replied.

"Right, well, I suppose you can come and meet my mother today, but you'll have to be the perfect gentlemen, and I'll make up some story about your clothes." I give in.

"What's wrong with my clothes?" Roger inquired, hurt.

"My mom's not into rock stars." I explain again. "Whatever… want to see a new photograph?"

"Sure." Roger agreed, sensing I wanted to change to subject. I pulled out a photo album. And flipped through the mostly black and white pictures to the last page, where a potted flower sits in all its glory. The sun had been setting at the time, so the plant and pot cast a long shadow, the plants head wilted slightly. Roger stared for a moment then opens his mouth and closes it… and opens it again.

"Spit it out." I say frustrated.

"It's… great." Roger says after another moment or two. "That's what your poem is about?"

I nod, glad he understands now.

* * *

I led Roger into his house, whispering rules, "Wipe your feet, take your shoes off, hang up that coat, hide it behind mine please, my mom will freak if she sees that here. Okay, ready to meet my mom?"

"Mark, Mark are you home?" a slightly nasally voice asked.

"Hi Mom," I call, "In the foyer! I have a friend here, I want you to meet."

My mother walked into the foyer and grinned, "Oh! Marky! You made a friend!"

I blushed furiously, as my mom called me Marky. "Mom, this is Roger."

"Roger Davis, pleased to meet you Mrs. Cohen," Roger said politely and extending his hand, as my eyes nearly shot out of my head. I had never heard Roger speak to anyone like that.

My mother shook Roger's hand, "Roger, dear, you can call my Cynthia, if you would like. It's so nice for my Marky to have a friend… you know he's never really had one before… now that I think about it, except maybe Nanette Himmelfarb… you know her dear, the rabbi's daughter?"

"Mom!" I complained.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Cohen, but I'm not Jewish." Roger informed my mother.

"Oh, well, that's alright dear… you two go enjoy yourselves." She said and turned around walking back into the kitchen.

"Mom, can you wait a second?" I asked, half nervous, half laughing.

She faced me again, "Yes Marky?"

"Is it alright if I go to Roger's house for a few hours?" I questioned hopefully.

"Of course dear, but you'll have to be back before dinner, and you know that's at 7 sharp." She responded.

"Mrs. Cohen, if you don't mind Mark could eat dinner at my house, my mom has already invited him to stay, so it won't be any trouble at all." Roger tried.

"Sorry dear, but Mr. Cohen thinks dinner should be a family affair. Be careful Marky and home by 6:45 so you'll have time to wash up dear!" My mom said, embarrassing me more then I ever thought she could.

"Yes mom!" I called on my way out the door behind Roger.

* * *

"C'mon Marky, my house is just 'round this corner Marky!" Roger laughed, he's been calling me Marky since we left my house, and I don't think he'll ever stop.

"Shut up, I still can't believe she liked you, she only seemed disappointed that you weren't Jewish Rog." I said, amazed.

"I didn't even know you were Jewish!" Roger cried.

"I'm not." I muttered, "My family is."

"Aw, Marky is afraid to tell his family he doesn't want to be a Jewish boy anymore." Roger teased.

"Technically, Jewish man, I had my Bar Mitzvah over a year ago." I replied.

"Technically, schechnically." Roger answered. "Here's my house."

"You only live five minutes away?" I asked.

"Yup," Roger said cheerfully, as we enter the house and I follow him down the hallway. "I didn't know until today though. It's fuckin' awesome."

"It is pretty awesome."

"C'mon Marky, say fuckin' awesome."

"Alright Rog, it is fuckin' awesome." I said, laughing as the unfamiliar swear word leaves my mouth. "Now do I get to hear you're song?"

"I just need to tune my guitar Marky!"

"Rog?"

"Mmm?" he responded halfheartedly concentrating on the acoustic he has across his lap.

"Stop calling me Marky."

He glanced up at me, an evil glint in his green eyes, "Never Marky."

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**A/N: Next Chapter, Roger's song! And a closer look at family dinner of both Mark and Roger.**


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So, I'm sorry this took forever, but I'm having extreme computer problems with my laptop, and was in the middle of writing a 14 page one-shot about Mark, Roger, and Maureen when the power cord and something else, crapped out. This came along instead. I already have an idea for the next chapter so it should be up fairly soon.

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"I see the looks you shoot at me,

I hear all your suspicions,

He's one out of control boy,

He doesn't follow rules or traditions.

But I don't wanna take over Dad's business,

I just want to go to NYC.

I don't wanna get married and have six kids.

I'm gonna be the greatest rocker you'll ever see.

And so you can take your rules,

And try to prove your suspicions.

I've got my guitar, and my car.

Turn 18 and I'll be far away from your traditions.

Gonna get my fifteen minutes of fame,

Then I'm gonna get fifteen more.

Gonna sign records deal, left and right.

And girls are gonna try and knock down my door.

Some how I'll make you all see,

Soon you'll be seeing my way,

New York City's the only place to be.

I'm gonna let my music pave the way.

And so you can take your rules,

And try to prove your suspicions.

I've got my guitar, and my car.

Turn 18 and I'll be far away from your traditions.

So, I'll be the bad boy in the leather jacket,

Just so you can point and stare.

So, spread the rumors, behind those hands,

Soon you'll get that I don't care.

I'll be the odd-one-out.

The son who doesn't take after Dad,

I'll be the first to escape this place,

And that's what you think is so bad.

And so you can take your rules,

And try to prove your suspicions.

I've got my guitar, and my car.

Turn 18 and I'll be far away from your traditions.

Got my guitar, got my car,

Turn 18 and I'll be far.

I'll be on a stage, just wait and see,

I'll be rocking in NYC.

Got my guitar, got my car,

I'll be on a stage, just wait and see,

I'll be rocking in NYC."

The last chords of Roger's song faded out and I clapped enthusiastically. "Even better then last year when you played it for me," I said honestly.

"Well, I changed the notes in the beginning… and then I changed this chord to the C chord… and then I played it differently, I used…" Roger started to explain all the technical music mumbo-jumbo, that I had no hopes of understanding.

"Um, Rog-, you totally lost me." I said, and he laughed, "But it's still good." I checked my watch, "Shit, Roger, if I don't leave now, I'll be very late for dinner." I stood and made my way to the door.

"I still don't understand why you can't just stay here for dinner," Roger complained.

I had one foot out the door, but I turned back to tell Roger, "I just can't. My dad would never agree to it."

"Bye Marky!" he called out after me.

"Don't call me that!" I shouted back.

* * *

I slid into my seat at exactly 7:01. My sister Cindy, age nineteen, was smirking at my lateness. My father glared at me, "You're late Mark, and you know what that means right?" I nodded and hung my head.

"Answer me, and look me in the eye." My father said, angrier this time, "You know what this means right?"

"Dear, he's only one minute late… why don't you let him off the hook this time, Tony?" My mother begged.

"Shut up." He told her, and I closed my eyes, but still heard the crack of my father's hand slapping my mother's face.

"Answer me, and look me in the eye." My father repeated, now thoroughly pissed, "You know what this means right?"

"Yes, sir," I replied, forcing myself to look up and into my fathers cold grey eyes.

"What does being late mean Mark?" he growled.

"Being late means that I am to go to bed without supper, sir," I stated, trying not to blink.

"That's right, so get upstairs, you good-for-nothing kid." My father slurred beer already half gone, while two empties sat beside him. "Get out of my sight."

I pushed my chair back, gently, and stood quickly heading for the stairs, as I passed my father he stuck his foot out and tripped me, cause me to fall flat on my face, and then he kicked me in the back, his steel toed boots hitting me just below my right shoulder blade. I bit my lip, forcing myself not to cry, knowing that if I did, it would get worse. So, I scampered up as quickly as possible, nearly running for the comfort of my room.

* * *

Roger hummed a tune to a song that had been forming in his head for the past few days, as he set the table. His mother had called from the kitchen and said that dinner would be ready in a few moments, and so he had set out the two dishes and the silverware that went with it. He then sat in his seat waiting for his food. His stomach growled. He laughed at it, and looked at the empty chair across from him; he kept the chair there in case one day Mark decided to stay.

Roger had known Mark for over a year and never once had they shared a dinner. Roger knew that Mark's father was strict, but he didn't think that dinner at a friends house every once in awhile, was a ridiculous thing to ask for. Roger was thankful that his mom was fairly okay with things like that, as long as she knew where Roger was, she really didn't mind.

Roger's mother came out with the food, and served Roger and herself, and they enjoyed a quiet dinner. Roger's thoughts drifted in and out of his head, everything from homework to girls, to guitar. He chewed quietly, then thanked his mom, kissed her goodnight and went to work some more on that song that had been buzzing around his head.

* * *

The next day, I was late for school, something that rarely happens to me, so I didn't see Roger until lunch. He was sitting at our usual table his lunch bought already, as I unpacked my brown bag.

"Hey, where were you this morning?" Rog asked.

"Slept in," I lied. Roger raised his eyebrow, he didn't believe me. Mostly because he knew I was an overly happy early riser and morning person. When I stopped to pick him up from his house to walk to school most days, I was bright-eyed and smiling, while he rubbed sleep out of his eyes, grimaced and yawned.

"It happens to the best of us." He said, deciding to let it pass.

"Rog, you'd sleep 'til noon every day, if I didn't show up at your door at 7." I retorted.

"I didn't today." He commented.

"Did your mom wake you up?" I asked quizzically.

"Yeah…" he admitted, "15 minutes late, I had to run to get here on time."

I laughed, "See?"

"Shut up, Marky!" Roger said, playfully slapping me on the back.

I cringed and Roger saw it, his face going stony. "Sorry, kid, did I hurt you?" Roger always reverted back to calling me kid, when he was worried about me, even though technically I was older than him.

"Yeah… um, fell yesterday running home from your house." I lied again, my fingers tapping the table nervously.

"Stop lying to me!" Roger exclaimed suddenly, hitting me again, this time hard and on purpose.

Tears came to my eyes at he punched the big purplish-black bruise that was covered by my striped sweater. "Ouch!" I spat angrily. "Don't do that!" I complained, moving away from him.

"Marky… who?" he asked, simply. He pulled me down, gently, onto the bench beside him. I looked Roger in the eye, after wiping mine on my sleeve, "Rog… for my sake please…" I paused, "I fell…"

"Okay, Marky." He said. "You fell." He slung one arm around my shoulder, and spoke in a soft voice, "Sorry, Mark…"

"It's alright." I said, and then thought about how to change the subject, "You going to the Halloween Dance?" I asked.

"Why?" Roger questioned, raising his eyebrow, "Do you want to be my date?" he laughed.

"No. No. No." I stated.

"Damn, guess I'll have to ask another girl…"

"HEY!" I protested, "I'm not a girl."

"Sure, that's what they all say." Roger teased.

"You never actually answered my original question." I reminded him.

"Oh, I dunno yet, don't want to go without a date…" he replied, running a hand through his gelled and spiked hair.

"So… just ask any girl. In fact ask the next girl who passes. I bet you five bucks that she'll say yes." I dare, foolishly.

"Ask the _very next_ girl who passes?" Roger asked, and I nodded, "You're so on."

Just then, our elderly secretary Mrs. Sinclair walked passed, and Roger burst out laughing. "You said next girl, right?" he asked, and then without waiting for me to answer, he stood, hopped over the table and tapped Mrs. Sinclair on the shoulder, "Hello, Mrs. Sinclair." Roger said smiling like a fool.

"Hello, Roger, dear, I do hope you're not in trouble again." She replied, a small grin gracing her white-haired, wrinkly face. Roger had been sent to the office twice this month already, and had been suspended for smoking in the boys' room last year.

"Oh no, Mrs. Sinclair, I just wanted to ask you a question." Roger stated, grinning wider now.

"Of course dear, what question would that be?" Mrs. Sinclair asked sincerely.

"Will you go to the Halloween Dance with me?" Roger said, never breaking his façade.

Just then the bell rang, and Roger grabbed my arm, pulling me out of the cafeteria and towards the gym, where our next class was. "She never actually said no, Roger…" I told him, as we entered the gym after getting changed.

"Ha, like she would've said yes." Roger snickered, "You owe me five bucks."

"Rog, you owe me 50 from last year… want me to knock of some of that?" I told him, it was true, roger was constantly 'borrowing' five or ten bucks, and never giving it back.

"Nah, you'll get that back when we're famous, I want the cold hard cash." He told me.

I sighed and handed him a five dollar bill. "Some things never change, huh Rog?"

"Yup, like today Marky, I'm going whoop your ass at dodge ball, as usual."

* * *

A/N: R&R! Hope you liked it.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Another chapter! Hooray. I apologize for my lack of Hanukkah knowledge, and also of the Bar Mitzvah knowledge, feel free to correct me! I'll make sure it's changed.**

* * *

"You know, Marky, the point of _dodge ball _is to dodge said ball." Roger told me, smirking, while he leaned casually against the wall.

"Shut up," I muttered, holding the icepack to my head, sitting in the nurse's office.

"No." Roger replied, sticking his tongue out at me.

"Real mature…" I groaned, pressing the ice pack closer to the bruise on my temple. "Roger?"

"Mhm?"

"Why am I such a klutz?" I asked, biting my lip, because no matter how much Roger says he didn't throw the ball _that_ hard, it still fucking hurts, and refused to cry.

"Marky, I don't have the answer to these challenging questions." Roger answered, coming to sit beside me. "You're gonna be fine."

"Yeah, well, it still hurts." I complained, "And it's your fault."

"I disagree." Roger said, and I raised my eyebrow, "You see, this is what happened," Roger paused to take a deep breath, "We were in gym, playing our once-a-month game of dodge ball, and unfortunately we were put on opposite sides of the team, so I couldn't protect you-"

"I don't need protection!" I argued, and Roger hushed me pointing to the ice pack.

"Anyway, then I threw a ball at this guy, right, and I aimed for his shoulder and my aim was perfect, I might add. Then you walked in front of said guy, and see, he was a little taller then you, so, your head was at shoulder his shoulder level." Roger paused again, "Then you kinda fell. Then the teacher said I had to take you here, because I hit you… even though you really just got in the way of my shot."

I raised my eyebrow again at Roger's explanation, "So, that's your story huh?"

"Yup, that way I don't have to say I'm sorry." Roger grinned, and I grinned back, knowing in fact, that that was his apology.

The nurse came out then, and said I could head home, as long as I had someone to walk with. I nodded and pointed to Roger, and she smiled and said I was lucky to have such a good friend. I snorted and Roger glared, and shoved me.

Roger and I stood and headed out the front doors of school, after stopping at our lockers to get our coats. It had snowed for the first time last night, and the ground was covered in a thick white blanket. I zipped up tightly and gripped the handrail heading down the stairs that led out of our school.

* * *

My mom was waiting for me at the door, "Oh, hello Roger dear," she said without giving him a second glance, then ran and hugged me tightly, "Marky, your school called and said you hurt yourself, are you alright?"

I pushed her off, shaking my head, unsure how she could be so upset over my klutziness, but ignore my father's actions, "I'm fine Mom, and 'sides Roger hit me with the ball."

"Yup," Roger agreed cheerfully, "I did, don't worry, he's fine, it's just a small dent Mrs. Cohen." He joked.

My mom observed me for a moment longer then invited Roger inside, with words that shocked me, "Would you like to stay for dinner Roger?"

I gaped at my mom and started, "But Dad…"

"Your father is out of town until Monday," My mother said, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"I'd love to stay for dinner, Mrs. Cohen." Roger replied, the unusual polite tone in his voice. "I'd have to call my mother first though." And I swore he cast a spell, because my mother giggled and cooed about what a sweet boy Roger was and I wanted to show her the detention slip Roger's got in his pocket for skipping history.

As my mum, Roger and I sat at the table for dinner (Cindy was at her "friends" house, my mum thought Tanya's, I knew Andrew's her boyfriend's), my mother announced suddenly, "Marky, dear, the Johnson's are coming over to spend Hanukkah with us, and they're bringing their daughter, Maureen, with them."

I choked on my food, and Roger watched me, biting back a laugh, "You okay?" he managed to say, and I nodded, after sipping some water.

"Yeah, fine, when will they be here Mom?" I asked, already dreading the arrival of the crazy-daughter, Maureen.

"They'll be here this weekend; you know Hanukkah starts the next weekend, Marky." My mother said sternly.

"Yeah, I know," I replied sulkily.

"You get to miss school?" Roger asked eyes wide.

"Yeah…" I nodded.

"Well, he can't go to school when we're celebrating a very important holiday at home, can he Roger?" My mother said, stabbing at a carrot with a bit more force then necessary,

"No, not at all, Ma'am," Roger said, looking at me enviously. The rest of dinner was finished in silence.

* * *

My mother had invited Roger to sleepover, since my father was not going to be back for awhile. So, after dinner we had run to Roger's house grabbed his stuff, he kissed his mother on the cheek while I waved and smiled at her, and then we rushed back to my house.

Now, we're sitting in my room, and Roger is still looking at me enviously. "What?" I said, irritated, and pulling at the loose threads on my quilt.

"You get 3 weeks of holidays." Roger complained grumpily.

I snorted and flopped onto my back on my bed unceremoniously, "Yeah, but after Maureen visits I'll need the two weeks to recover!"

"Who is Maureen, and what's so bad about her anyway?" Roger questioned suddenly, moving to sit on the edge of my bed. "I mean, your parents are letting a girl stay at your house, a girl whose the same age as you, I'd kill to be you man."

"Roger, not if you knew Maureen, you wouldn't." I replied, and grabbing my camera from the bedside table to snap a picture of the quizzical, look on Roger's face.

"Ah!" Roger grumbled, shutting his eyes after the flash, "Dude, not cool… but what did she do to you?"

"Ugh… it was my Bar Mitzvah." I cringed at the memory.

"Bar Mitzvah?" Roger echoed, reminding me, once again, that he was not Jewish.

"Yeah, it happens when you're thirteen, it the passageway to manhood, you read from this huge Hebrew book, and everyone celebrates." I explained briefly.

"Wait, so, you're a man?" Roger laughed at that idea, clutching his sides.

"Yeah, I guess. But Maureen's family is friends with mine, so she's been at every important celebration; I was at her Bat Mitzvah, which was exactly one month before mine, so she rubbed it in my face. Then she came to my Bar Mitzvah, and well I loved the hall, so I had been taking pictures of the room, and the guests, and everything I could… when suddenly she grabbed my camera out of my hands, and started taking pictures of me." I paused, getting angry as I relived the memory.

"What's so bad about that?" Roger questioned, "I take your camera at least once a week, and snap a photo of you…"

"Roger… she dropped it." I told him, quietly.

"Oh… it broke…" Roger stated, grinning, "Why is that so bad?"

"Imagine someone breaking your most prized possession… your guitar!" I explained, half-angry. "Someone you didn't want touching it, coming up, ripping it from your arms and then smashing it against a wall."

I snapped another few pictures as I watched Roger imagine this, thoughts and emotions dancing across his face. Roger was often the subject of my photos, simply because we spent so much time together.

"Now, I see what you're talking about…" Roger finally spoke.

* * *

The next week, a day before the Johnson's were to arrive, Roger and I sat in his room. He had my newest photo album spread open in front of him as he sat cross-legged on the floor. I leaned against his bed, shuffling sheets of loose-leaf paper with lyrics scribbled across them. I had learned to read Roger's chicken scratch, and he was now careful not to touch the actual photos, and get fingerprints on them. The cost of a bond of more then friendship, I considered him more of a brother then a friend now, though we'd only known each other of for just over a year.

"Mark, your photos kick ass," Roger said suddenly, stopping a page of my favorites. "Though I'm a little freaked out that I didn't notice you taking most of these…"

I shrugged, "People always look better, when they're not posing for the camera."

"I guess…" Roger trailed off, and crinkled his brow, pointing carefully at a picture I had taken not too long ago, "Why did you take this?"

The photo was of Roger himself, sitting on his bed, guitar being strummed, eyes closed. And though there was no sound, and Roger's mouth was only slightly open, you could tell that he was singing. His spiked hair, perfect, his head tilted to the left a bit. "You looked…" I struggled to find the word, "Like you belonged behind your guitar, like it didn't matter that we're in this…"

"Hellhole," Roger supplied.

"Exactly," I answered, "You looked liked you didn't care, and the music was your getaway."

"It is…" Roger mumbled so quietly, that I doubt he meant for me to hear.

* * *

"Marky!" My mother called from the floor below, "the Johnson's are here, come downstairs!"

I rolled my eyes and muttered, "Just great, excellent present."

I made my way down the stairs, and stood beside my mother on the porch as the Johnson's came out. Mrs. Johnson had straight dark hair, was petite, with dark eyes, she held a basket of food as she walked up our driveway. Mr. Johnson was tall, and broad shouldered, with receding red curls, and grey eyes, he held three suitcases. Finally, Maureen exited their van, and she was stunning, still annoying, but stunning. She had reddish-brown curls that fell down her back, and chocolate brown eyes. She had a bag slung over her right shoulder, and stood with a hunched posture, crossed arms, and a full-lipped pout. Clearly she was just as unhappy to be here as I am. We all stumbled through greetings and entered the house, where the adults (including Cindy, now that she was over 18, though my parents watered down her alcohol) went into the living room to have a drink and Maureen and I were banished to the second floor.

I mumbled a short, quiet "hi…" to her, then, walked into my room and shut the door. Two seconds later, Maureen opened the door and sat down on the floor. "Hey!" I exclaimed, "The door was closed." I mumbled afterwards.

"And now it's open." She stated calmly, "So, wanna blow this place? As long as were back by dinner, no one's even going to notice."

I thought about it for a moment, we would be in so much trouble, if we got caught. But I could be at Roger's right now, accomplishing more then I was sitting here and arguing with Maureen. "How're we gonna get out the front door without them noticing?" I questioned.

"We're not going to use the front door." Maureen said, and she tiptoed quietly downstairs and back up, clutching our coats in her small hands, "We're going out the window." She announced as she returned.

"We're what?" I asked incredulously.

"We're going out the window," she repeated, slowly, calmly. "It's not that hard, watch."

With that said, she pushed my window open, slid out of it, and crawled gracefully to the drain pipe, and from there she slid down. I watched in awe, wishing I had had my camera at that moment. I grabbed it off the nightstand, placed it in my bag and swung it over my shoulder, then I took a deep breath and step gingerly out of the window, following Maureen Johnson for the first, but definitely not last time of my life.

**A/N: Thoughts? I love feedback!**


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